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    Paragon Walk
    Paragon Walk
    Paragon Walk
    Ebook362 pages6 hours

    Paragon Walk

    By Anne Perry

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    The stylish gentlemen of London’s Paragon Walk are suspects in a novel that “combines murder with a profile of the morals and manners of Victorian society” (The Atlanta Journal-Constitution).
      When innocent Fanny Nash of exclusive Paragon Walk dies in the arms of her exquisite sister-in-law, Jessamyn, Inspector Pitt is assigned to investigate her rape and murder. Every man of Paragon Walk is under suspicion, even Pitt’s brother-in-law, Lord George Ashworth, who was the last to have seen her. Could it be the charming, enigmatic Frenchman? Fanny’s cruel brother? Wealthy Dilbridge, who hosts wild, decadent parties? As Pitt digs deeper into the mystery, Paragon Walk’s aristocratic haughtiness gives way to fear, its calm to hatred.   To keep her sister Emily, Lady Ashworth, company in this difficult time, inquisitive Charlotte once again finds herself in the midst of a deadly mystery. In the drawing rooms of her sister’s neighbors, Charlotte engages in witty and sharp-edged conversations that reveal unsavory intrigues and bitter rivalries. On Paragon Walk, Charlotte’s probing despite Thomas’s warnings may prove fatal.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateJun 14, 2011
    ISBN9781453219065
    Author

    Anne Perry

    With twenty million books in print, ANNE PERRY's was selected by The Times as one of the twentieth century's '100 Masters of Crime', for more information about Anne and her books, visit: www.anneperry.co.uk

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    Reviews for Paragon Walk

    3.5/5

    248 ratings13 reviews

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    • 4/5
      ☊[Paragon Walk] by Anne Perry - 248 pgs. - ★★★★ - 7/22/2018This is the 3rd book in the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt series written by Anne Perry. The setting is London 1880's and a young woman has been raped and murdered on Paragon Walk. Tom, Charlotte and her sister, Emily, help to solve the crime. Anne Perry shows us the difference between the lower class and the quirks of the Victorian society expertly. Her books are quick easy reads and are a very interesting time period to read about.
    • 4/5
      I liked this book even though it is more of a slice of life on an upper-crust Victorian street than a mystery. I like the characters and the relationship between sisters Emily who married up and Charlotte who married down. Perry keeps her "Why I hate Victorians" essays to a minimum { for Anne Perry.) But Charlotte spending the funeral of a murdered 17 year old rape victim fuming about the absurdity of Victorian mourning customs is totally cold-hearted.
    • 2/5
      I am on a collision course and I cannot stop. I have read all the Monk and Christmas series by Anne Perry, and have started on the Thomas and Charlotte Pitt series. The Monk series remains my favorite collection. The Pitt series lacks the depth and character of the Monk series, even though both series feature the different classes of people. Perry continues in the Pitt series to show the hate and vengeance of females. Perry elegantly describes the fashion of the upper crust, but emotion hides in this elegance.
    • 4/5
      Paragon Walk by Anne Perry is the third book in the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt historical mystery series. I enjoyed the first two books better than this one although it is still an entertaining read.More social commentary and less mystery here but still well written and with a numerous cast of characters. Like Book 2, Charlotte's sister Emily is showcased and the murders take place in her neighborhood.The ending is exceptionally abrupt and I found it unsatisfying as there was no wrap up. Once more, the last 20% of my Kindle version was comprised of a preview of the next book in the series.
    • 4/5
      Having jumped into this series in the middle of the books, I decided to go back and read some of the earlier ones and it made me realize what I liked about the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt in the first place. This is the third book in the series and Charlotte and Thomas are still newly married with a baby daughter. A young woman from a ealthy area in London is found raped and murdered on the very stret tht Charlotte's sister, Emily, lives. Pitt, of course, has to investigate and in doing so we re introduced to wonderful Aunt Vespasia, who is wonderfully arch - much more so than she is in the later volumes. And Charlotte and Emily are a great duo as they snoop around trying to find out who the real culprit is. Anne Perry even allows Charlotte to be silly - something that definitely does not happen in the later books.Reading these early efforts makes me wish that Pitt was still a policeman and that Charlotte was once again his trusty partner in detective work. It would make thte later books a lot more fun.
    • 3/5
      Charlotte and Thomas Pitt are back investigating murder. This time a young woman has been raped and murdered in Paragon Walk, a fashionable London street that happens to be home to Charlotte's sister Emily. Charlotte and Emily decide to investigate. As Charlotte has married down and become a policeman's wife, Emily will have to dress Charlotte back up as the fashionable lady she once was. This book seemed to be more social interaction and less crime-solving. Charlotte and Emily spend most of their time attending social functions and gossiping. It seems that Perry really wanted to spend more time commenting on social life and customs than to write a mystery. Undoubtedly the bitchy social interaction is amusing. It's a backstabbing, every woman for herself arena, where Victorian manners and their transgressions are on full display. Still, I really wanted more mystery. I hope Perry returns to more mystery in the next volume of the series.
    • 4/5
      I liked this book even though it is more of a slice of life on an upper-crust Victorian street than a mystery. I like the characters and the relationship between sisters Emily who married up and Charlotte who married down. Perry keeps her "Why I hate Victorians" essays to a minimum { for Anne Perry.) But Charlotte spending the funeral of a murdered 17 year old rape victim fuming about the absurdity of Victorian mourning customs is totally cold-hearted.
    • 2/5
      Substance: The only legitimate clue is discounted for half the book, then set aside again until the end. The motive for the killer is non-existent until the last page. But the characters stew over their suspicions interminably, with much repetition and no progress, creating a farrago of nonsense. No one actually detects anything. Mrs. Pitt frequently pronounces her anachronistic opinions in opposition to the statements of the other characters, clearly meant to show that the author is enlightened (because there is no motivation or discussion of the values).Style: I hope this is an isolated example of poor work: Anne Perry is a tiresome writer. The plot limps, the characters are mouthpieces, the milieu is window-dressing. The narrative constantly alludes to prior books without explanation. Poor continuity. A tabloid-romance, not a mystery.
    • 3/5
      This is the third of Perry's outings with Inspector Pitt and his inestimable wife Charlotte and I'm sad to say that I am already having my doubts over the series longevity on my bookshelf. It is essentially the same story as the last two books except the characters have different names and live in different streets. A person is brutally murdered in an upper-class London neighbourhood. Inspector Pitt arrives and questions everyone who lives in the locality. Then his wife goes and takes tea with them all and asks them some more questions. It transpires that all the people in the neighbourhood has a dirty secret. Then at least one more person is attacked or murdered. There is more questioning and taking of tea and then the murderer is revealed. The next one really needs a change of scene and for something different to happen to hold my attention. I hope it does as I like Charlotte and Thomas Pitt, they are great characters.
    • 4/5
      Book 3 of the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt gaslight mysteries. Another fun romp through Victorian society in search of a killer.
    • 4/5
      Charlotte's sister Emily invites her back into society to find out who is the murderer in her neighborhood. Many mysteries are uncovered along with evil intentions.
    • 4/5
      1885 Who would want to kill 17 year old innocent Fanny Nash of Paragon Walk. It is for Inspector Pitt to investigate. As his sister my marriage Emily lives on the same Walk, will she and his wife Charlotte be a help in this case. Is Fanny's death the start of a killing spree.
      An enjoyable and well-written mystery
    • 4/5
      If you like Victorian cozies and lovable characters, this book is for you.With the third in the Pitt series, the author, Anne Perry hits her stride. The story begins with a body in the morgue. The victim is slight, delicately featured, beautifully dressed, her arms bruised, her face barely touched by life. Fanny Nash is seventeen when she is stabbed and raped in Paragon Walk, a London neighborhood of impeccable pedigree, and the neighborhood, as luck would have it, of Charlotte’s sister, Emily, and her husband, Lord Ashworth.Pitt is called in to to investigate. In so doing, he scrapes the surface of society—the inhabitants, their servants, their families—revealing their stories, their guilt, their secrets, their relationships with one another, their pompous ill regard for most everyone else. Ms Perry lays bare the hypocrisy at the heart of Victorian society, the theme at the heart of this intricately plotted, beautifully and accurately detailed novel. You won’t want it to end, but end it does, just after the mystery is solved.Meet the ageless beauty, Lady Vespasia Cumming-GouldA recurring character in the Pitt series, Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, makes her first appearance in this novel. A favorite character of many readers, this one included, she happens to be staying with Emily and George in their Paragon Walk townhouse. Beautifully attired, outspoken, and witty, she serves, perhaps as the author’s point of view, but certainly as a delightful deus ex machina in this, as well as in subsequent novels in the series. One of her more envious characteristics is that she doesn’t age. She’s about seventy or eighty in Paragon Walk, and she approaches seventy in Treason in Lisson Grove which takes place, almost fifteen years later. You go, girl, Cumming-Gould!

    Book preview

    Paragon Walk - Anne Perry

    Paragon Walk

    Anne Perry

    for my mother

    Contents

    One

    Two

    Three

    Four

    Five

    Six

    Seven

    Eight

    Nine

    Ten

    Preview: Resurrection Row

    One

    INSPECTOR PITT STARED down at the girl, and an overwhelming sense of loss soaked through him. He had never known her in life, but he knew and treasured all the things that now she had lost.

    She was slight, with fair brown hair, a childish seventeen. Lying on the white morgue table, she looked brittle enough to have snapped if he had touched her. There were bruises on her arms where she had fought.

    She was expensively dressed in lavender silk, and there was a gold and pearl chain around her throat—things he could never have afforded. They were pretty, trivial enough in the face of death, and yet he would like to have been able to give such things to Charlotte.

    Thoughts of Charlotte, safe and warm at home, brought a sickness tightening in his stomach. Had some man loved this girl as he loved Charlotte? Was there someone right now for whom everything clean and bright and gentle had gone? All laughter snatched away, with the breaking of this fragile body?

    He forced himself to look at her again, but his eyes avoided the wound in her chest, the stream of blood, now congealed and thick. The white face was expressionless, all surprize or horror ironed out of it. It was a little pinched.

    She had lived in Paragon Walk, very rich and very fashionable, and no doubt also idle. He had nothing in common with her. He had worked ever since leaving the estate that had employed his father possessing nothing but a cardboard box with a comb and a change of shirt and an education shared with the son of the great house. He had seen the poverty and the despair that teemed just behind the elegant streets and squares of London, things this girl had never dreamed of.

    He pulled a face as he remembered with a twist of humor how horrified Charlotte had been when he had first described them to her, when he was merely the policeman investigating the Cater Street murders, and she a daughter of the Ellison house. Her parents had been appalled even to have him in the establishment, let alone to address him socially. It had taken courage for Charlotte to marry him, and at the thought of it the warmth burst up inside him again, and his fingers clenched on the edge of the table.

    He looked down at the girl’s face again, furious at the waste, the wealth of experience she would never know, the chances gone.

    He turned away.

    Last night after dark, the constable beside him said glumly. Ugly business. Do you know Paragon Walk, sir? Very ’igh class neighborhood, that. Most of it is, around there.

    Yes, Pitt said absently. Of course, he knew it; it was part of his district. He did not add that he knew Paragon Walk especially, because Charlotte’s sister had her town house there and so it had remained in his mind. As Charlotte had married socially beneath her, so Emily had married above and was now Lady Ashworth.

    Not the sort of thing you’d expect, the constable went on, not in a place like that. He made a slight click of disapproval with his tongue. I don’t know what things is coming to, what with General Gordon killed by that there dervish, or whatever, in January, and now we got rapists loose in a place like Paragon Walk. Shockin’, I call it, poor young girl like that. Looks as innocent as a lamb, don’t she? He stared down at her mournfully.

    Pitt turned round. Did you say raped?

    Yes, sir. Didn’t they tell you that at the station?

    No, Forbes, they did not, Pitt was sharper than he meant to be, to cover the new misery. They just said murder.

    Oh, well, she’s been murdered, too, Forbes added reasonably. Poor creature. He sniffed. I suppose you’ll be wanting to go to Paragon Walk now it’s morning, like, and talk to all them people?

    Yes, Pitt agreed, turning to leave. There was nothing more he could do here. The means of death was obvious, a long, sharp-bladed knife at least an inch broad. There was only one wound, which had to have been fatal.

    Right, Forbes followed him up the steps, his heavy feet loud on the stone.

    Outside Pitt gulped at the summer air. The trees were in full leaf and already at eight o’clock it was warm. A hansom cab clopped by at the end of the road, and an errand boy whistled about his business.

    We’ll walk, Pitt said, striding out, coat flapping, hat jammed on the top of his head. Forbes was obliged to trot to keep up with him, and long before they were at Paragon Walk the constable was distressingly out of breath and wishing fervently his duty had landed him with anybody but Pitt.

    Paragon Walk was a Regency road of great elegance, facing an open park with flowerbeds and ornamental trees. It curved gently for about a thousand yards. This morning it looked white and silent in the sunlight, and there was not even a footman or a gardener’s boy to be seen. Word of the tragedy would have spread, of course; there would be huddles in kitchens and pantries and embarrassed platitudes over the breakfast tables upstairs.

    Fanny Nash, Forbes said, catching his breath for the first time as Pitt stopped.

    Pardon?

    Fanny Nash, sir, Forbes repeated. That was ’er name.

    Oh, yes. The sense of loss returned for a moment. This time yesterday she would have been alive, behind one of those classic windows, probably deciding what to wear, telling her maid what to lay out for her, planning her day, whom to call on, what gossip to tell, what secrets to keep. It was the beginning of the London Season. What dreams had crowded through her mind such a little while ago?

    Number Four, Forbes prompted at his elbow.

    Inwardly Pitt cursed Forbes for his practicality, though he knew that was unfair. This was a foreign world to Forbes, stranger than the back streets of Paris or Bordeaux would have been. He was used to women in plain, stuff dresses who worked from waking to sleeping, large families living in a few, overfurnished rooms with the smell of cooking everywhere and the intimate usage of faults and pleasures. He could not think of these people as the same, under their silks, and their rigid, stylized manners. Without the discipline of work, they had invented the discipline of etiquette, and it had become just as ruthless a master. But Forbes could not be expected to understand that.

    As a policeman, Pitt knew it was customary for him to present himself at the tradesman’s entrance, but he would not now begin something he had refused all his life.

    The footman who came to the front door was grim and stiff-faced. He stared at Pitt with unaffected dislike, although the superciliousness of the look was somewhat spoiled by the fact that Pitt was several inches taller.

    Inspector Pitt, of the police, Pitt said soberly. May I speak with Mr. and Mrs. Nash? He assumed assent and was about to go in, but the footman stood his ground.

    Mr. Nash is not at home. I will see if Mrs. Nash will receive you, he said with distaste, then backed half a step. You may wait in the hall.

    Pitt looked around him. The house was larger than it had appeared from outside. He could see a wide stairway with landings leading from it on either side, and there were half a dozen doors in the hall. He had learned something of art from working on the recovery of stolen goods, and he judged the pictures on the walls to be of considerable value, if too stylized for his own taste. He preferred the modern, more impressionistic school, with blurred lines, sky and water merging in a haze of light. But there was one portrait, after the manner of Burne-Jones, that caught his attention, not for its artist, but for its subject, a woman of exceptional beauty—proud, sensuous and dazzling.

    Cor! Forbes let out his breath in amazement, and Pitt realized he had not been inside a house such as this before, except perhaps in the servants’ hall. He was afraid Forbes’s gaucheness would embarrass them both, and perhaps even handicap his questioning.

    Forbes, why don’t you go and see what you can learn from the servants? he suggested. Perhaps a footman or a maid was out? People don’t realize how much they notice.

    Forbes was torn. Part of him wanted to stay and examine this new world, not to be shut out of anything, but a larger part wanted to escape to the more familiar and do something he was confident in. His hesitation was brief and came to a natural end.

    Right, sir! Yes, I’ll do that. Might try some of the other houses, too. Like you say, never know what they’ve seen, till you try, like?

    When the footman returned, he conducted Pitt into the morning room and left him. It was five minutes before Jessamyn Nash appeared. Pitt knew her immediately; she was the woman from the portrait in the hall, with those wide, direct eyes, that mouth, that radiant hair, thick and soft as summer fields. She was dressed in black now, but it did nothing to dim her brilliance. She stood very straight, her chin high.

    Good morning, Mr. Pitt. What is it you wish to ask me?

    Good morning, ma’am. I’m sorry to have to disturb you in such tragic circumstances—

    I appreciate the necessity. You do not need to explain. She walked across the room with exquisite grace. She did not sit, nor did she invite him to do so. Naturally you must discover what happened to Fanny, poor child. Her face froze for just an instant, stiff. She was only a child, you know, very innocent, very—young.

    It was the same impression he had had, extreme youth.

    I’m sorry, he said quietly.

    Thank you. He had no idea from her voice whether she knew he meant it, or if she took it as a simple courtesy, the automatic thing to say. He would like to have assured her, but then she would not care about the feelings of a policeman.

    Tell me what happened. He looked at her back as she stood at the window. She was slender, shoulders delicately soft under the silk. Her voice, when it came, was expressionless, as though she were repeating something rehearsed.

    I was at home yesterday evening. Fanny lived here with my husband and myself. She was my husband’s half sister, but I presume you know that. She was only seventeen. She was engaged to marry Algernon Burnon, but that was not to be for three years at least, when she became twenty.

    Pitt did not interrupt. He seldom interrupted; the slightest remarks that seemed irrelevant at the time could turn out to mean something, betraying a feeling if nothing else. And he wanted to know all he could about Fanny Nash. He wanted to know how other people had seen her, what she had meant to them.

    —that may seem a long engagement, Jessamyn was saying, but Fanny was very young. She grew up alone, you see. My father-in-law married a second time. Fanny is—was—twenty years younger than my husband. She seemed forever a child. Not that she was simple. She hesitated, and he noticed that her long fingers were fiddling with a china figurine from the table, twisting it around and around. Just— She fumbled for the word. —ingenuous—innocent.

    And she was living here with you and your husband, until her marriage?

    Yes.

    Why was that?

    She looked round at him in surprize. Her blue eyes were very cool, and there were no tears in them.

    Her mother is dead. Naturally we offered her a home. She gave a tiny, icy smile. Young girls of good family do not live alone, Mr.—I’m sorry—I forget your name.

    Pitt, ma’am, he said with equal chill. He was ruffled, surprised that he was still capable of feeling slighted after all these years. He refused to show it. He smiled within himself. Charlotte would have been furious; her tongue would have spoken as quickly as the words came to her mind. I thought she might have remained with her father.

    Something of his humor must have softened his face. She mistook it for a smirk. The color rose in her exquisite cheeks.

    She preferred to live with us, she said tartly. Naturally. A girl does not wish to enter the Season without a suitable lady, preferably of her own family, to advise and accompany her. I was happy to do so. Are you sure this is relevant, Mr.—Pitt? Are you not merely indulging your curiosity? I appreciate our way of life is probably quite unknown to you.

    An acid reply came to his mind, but anger was irrevocable, and he could not yet afford to commit himself to her enmity.

    He pulled a face. Perhaps it has nothing to do with it. Please continue with your account of yesterday evening.

    She took a breath to speak, then apparently changed her mind. She crossed over to the mantel shelf, piled with photographs, and began again in the same flat voice.

    She had spent a perfectly usual day. She had no household affairs to attend to, of course—I do all that. She wrote letters in the morning, consulted her diary, and kept an appointment with her dressmaker. She lunched here at home, and then in the afternoon she took the carriage and went calling. She did tell me upon whom, but I forget. It is always the same sort of people, and as long as one remembers oneself, it really hardly matters. I dare say you can find out from the coachman, if you wish. We dined at home. Lady Pomeroy called, a most tiresome person, but a family obligation—you wouldn’t understand.

    Pitt controlled his face and regarded her with continued polite interest.

    Fanny left early, she went on. She has very little social ability, as yet. Sometimes I think she is too young for a Season! I have tried to teach her, but she is very artless. She seems to lack any natural ability to invent. Even the simplest prevarication is a trial to her. She went on some small errand, a book for Lady Cumming-Gould. At least, that is what she said.

    And you do not think it was so? he inquired.

    A slight flicker crossed her face, but Pitt did not understand it. Charlotte might have interpreted it for him, but she was not here to ask.

    I should think it was precisely so, Jessamyn replied. As I have tried to explain to you, Mr.—er— She waved her hand irritably. Poor Fanny had no art to deceive. She was as guileless as a child.

    Pitt had seldom found children guileless; tactless perhaps—but most he could remember were possessed of the natural cunning of a stoat and the toughness in a bargain of a moneylender, although certainly some were blessed with the blandest of countenances. It was the third time Jessamyn had referred to Fanny’s immaturity.

    Well, I can ask Lady Cumming-Gould, he replied with what he hoped was a smile as guileless as Fanny’s.

    She turned away from him sharply, lifting one slender shoulder, as if his face had somehow reminded her who he was and that he must be recalled to his proper position.

    Lady Pomeroy had gone and I was alone when— her voice wavered, and for the first time she seemed to lose her composure, —when Fanny came back. She made an effort not to gulp, and failed. She was obliged to fumble for a handkerchief, and the clumsiness of it brought her back. Fanny came in and collapsed in my arms. I don’t know how the poor child had had the strength to come so far. It was amazing. She died but a moment afterward.

    I am sorry.

    She looked at him, her face devoid of expression, almost as if she were asleep. Then she moved one hand to brush at her heavy taffeta skirt, perhaps in memory of the blood on her the night before.

    Did she speak at all? he asked quietly. Anything?

    No, Mr. Pitt. She was nearly dead by the time she got so far.

    He turned slightly to look at the French doors. She came in through there? It was the only possible way without having passed the footman, and yet it seemed natural to ask.

    She shivered minutely.

    Yes.

    He walked over toward them and looked out. The lawn was small, a mere patch, surrounded by laurel bushes and a herbaceous walk beyond. There was a wall between this garden and the next. No doubt, by the time he had closed this case, he would know every view and corner of all these houses—unless there was some pathetic, easy answer, but none presented itself yet. He turned back to her.

    Is there any way your garden connects with the others along the Walk, a gate or door in that wall?

    Her face looked blank. Yes, but it is hardly the way she would choose to come. She was at Lady Cumming-Gould’s.

    He must send Forbes to all the gardens to see if there was any sign of blood. A wound such as that must have left some stain. And there might even be broken plants or footprints in gravel or grass.

    Where does Lady Cumming-Gould live? he asked.

    With Lord and Lady Ashworth, she replied. She is an aunt, I believe, and is visiting for the Season.

    With Lord and Lady Ashworth—so Fanny Nash had been to Emily’s house the night she was murdered. Memories came rushing back of Charlotte and Emily as he had first known them in Cater Street when he was investigating the hangman murders. Everyone had been afraid, looking with new eyes at friends, even at family; suspicions had been born that could otherwise have lain silent all life long. Old relationships had faltered and broken under the weight. Now violence and obscene and ugly secrets were close again, perhaps inside the very house. All the nightmares would return, the cold questions one was afraid even to think, and yet could not shut out.

    Is there access between all the gardens? he asked carefully, forcing the fog and terror of Cater Street from his mind. Might she have returned that way? It was a pleasant summer evening.

    She looked at him with light surprize.

    I hardly think it likely, Mr. Pitt. She was wearing a dinner dress, not pantaloons! She went and returned by the road. She must have been accosted by some lunatic there.

    A ridiculous thought flashed through his mind to ask her how many lunatics lived in Paragon Walk, but perhaps she would not know there had been coachmen lounging around at one end waiting for their masters and mistresses to leave a party, and a constable on the beat at the other.

    He eased his weight from one foot to the other and stood a little straighten

    Then I had best go and see Lady Cumming-Gould. Thank you, Mrs. Nash. I hope we will be able to clear up the matter quickly and not need to distress you for long.

    I hope so, she agreed with formal coolness. Good day.

    At the Ashworth house he was shown into the withdrawing room by a butler whose face mirrored his social dilemma. Here was a person who admitted to being of the police, and therefore undesirable, and should not be allowed to forget he was here on sufferance only, a most unpleasant necessity due to the recent tragedy. Yet, on the other hand, he was quite extraordinarily also Lady Ashworth’s brother-in-law! Which is what comes of marrying beneath one! In the end the butler settled for a pained civility and withdrew to fetch Lord Ashworth. Pitt was too entertained by the man’s predicament to be annoyed.

    But when the door opened, it was not George but Emily herself who came in. He had forgotten how charming she could be, and at the same time how utterly different from Charlotte. She was fair and slight, dressed at the height of fashion and expense. Where Charlotte was disastrously forthright, Emily was far too practical to speak without thinking, and could be exquisitely devious when she chose, in a good cause, of course. And she usually considered Society to be an excellent cause. She could lie without a tremor.

    She came in now and closed the door behind her, looking straight at him.

    Hello, Thomas, she said wanly. You must be here about poor Fanny. I didn’t dream we should have the good fortune that it should be you to investigate it. I’ve been trying to think if I knew anything that would be of help, as we did in Callander Square. Her voice lifted for a moment, Charlotte and I were rather clever there. Then her tone dropped again, and her face took on a pinched, unhappy look. But that was different. We didn’t know the people to start with. And the ones who were dead were dead before we ever knew of them. When you didn’t know people alive, it doesn’t hurt the same way. She sighed. Please sit down, Thomas. You tower there, sort of flapping. Can’t you do up your coat, or something? I must speak to Charlotte. She lets you come out without— She looked him up and down and gave up the whole idea.

    Pitt ran his hands through his hair and made it worse.

    Did you know Fanny Nash well? he asked, sitting on the sofa and seeming to spread over it, all coattails and arms.

    No. And I’m ashamed to say it now, but I didn’t especially like her either. She made an apologetic little face. She was rather—dull. Jessamyn’s enormous fun. At least half of me can’t bear her, and I’m constantly diverted by thinking what I might do next to annoy her.

    He smiled. There were so many echoes of Charlotte in her that he could not help warming to her.

    But Fanny was too young, he finished the sentence for her. Too naive.

    Quite. She was almost insipid. Then her face changed, filling with pity and embarrassment, because she had momentarily forgotten death, and the manner of it. Thomas, she was the last kind of creature in the world to invite such an abominable thing! Whoever did it must be quite insane. You must catch him, for Fanny’s sake—and for everyone else’s!

    All sorts of answers ran through his mind, reassurance about strangers and vagrants, long gone now, and they all died on his tongue. It was quite possible that the murderer was someone who lived or worked here in Paragon Walk. Neither the constable on duty at one end nor the servants waiting at the other had seen anyone pass. It was not the sort of area where people wandered unremarked. The probability was that it had been some coachman or footman from the party, inflamed with drink and with time on his hands, allowing a foolish impulse, perhaps when she threatened to cry out, to become suddenly an ugly and appalling crime.

    But it was not the crime itself; it was the attendant investigation that frightened, and the haunting fear that it might not be a footman but some man on the Walk, one of themselves with a violent and obscene nature lying under the mannered surface they knew. And police investigations uncovered not only the major crimes, but so often the smaller sins, the meannesses and deceits that hurt so much.

    But there was no need to tell her that. For all her title and her assurance, she was still the same girl who had been so vulnerable in Cater Street, when she had seen her father frightened and stripped of his pretenses.

    You will, won’t you? Her voice cut across his silence, demanding an answer. She was standing in the middle of the floor, staring at him.

    We usually do. It was the best thing he could say and be honest. And even if he had wished to, it was not much use lying to Emily. Like many practical and ambitious people, she was disastrously perceptive. She was well accomplished in the art of polite lies, and she read them like a book in others.

    He recalled himself to the purpose of his visit.

    She came to see you that evening, didn’t she?

    Fanny? Her eyes widened a little. Yes. She returned a book, or something, to Aunt Vespasia. Do you want to speak to her?

    He took the chance immediately.

    Yes, please. Perhaps you had better stay. In case she is distressed, you would be of comfort to her. He imagined an elderly female relative of excessively gentle birth with a correspondingly tender susceptibility to the vapors.

    For the first time Emily laughed.

    Oh, my dear, she put her hand over her mouth. You can’t imagine Aunt Vespasia! She picked up her skirts and swept to the door. But I shall most certainly stay. It is precisely what I need!

    George Ashworth was handsome enough, with bold dark eyes and a fine head of hair, but he could never have been an equal for his aunt. She was over seventy now, but there were still the remnants of a startling beauty in her face—the strength of the bones, the high cheeks and long, straight nose. Blue-white hair was piled on her head, and she wore a dress of deep lilac silk. She stood in the doorway and looked at Pitt for several minutes, then moved into the room, picking up her lorgnette, and studied him more closely.

    Can’t really see without the damn thing, she said irritably. She snorted very gently, like an extremely well-bred horse. Extraordinary, she breathed out. So you are a policeman?

    Yes, ma’am. For an instant even Pitt was at a loss for words. Over his shoulder he saw Emily’s face alight with amusement.

    What are you looking at? Vespasia said sharply. I never wear black. It doesn’t suit me. Always wear what suits you, regardless. Tried to tell Emily that, but she doesn’t listen. The Walk expects her to wear black, so she does. Very silly. Don’t let other people expect you into doing something you don’t wish to. She sat down on the sofa opposite and stared at him, her fine, gray eyebrows arched a little. Fanny came to see me the night she was killed. I assume you knew that, and that is why you have come.

    Pitt swallowed and tried to compose his face.

    Yes, ma’am. At what time, please?

    I’ve no idea.

    You must have some idea, Aunt Vespasia, Emily interrupted. It was after dinner.

    If I say I have no idea, Emily, then I have no idea. I don’t watch clocks. I don’t care for them. When one gets to my age, one doesn’t. It was dark, if that is of any help.

    A great help, thank you. Pitt calculated quickly. It must have been after ten, at this time of the year. And Jessamyn Nash had sent the footman for the police at a little before quarter to eleven. What did she come for, ma’am? he asked.

    To get away from an excessively boring dinner guest, Vespasia replied immediately. Eliza Pomeroy. Knew her as a child, and she was a bore even then. Talks about other people’s ailments. Who cares? One’s own are tedious enough!

    Pitt hid a smile with difficulty. He dared not look at Emily.

    She told you that? he inquired.

    Vespasia considered whether to be patient with him—because he was foolish—and decided against it. The thought was plain in her face.

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